me, scrambling to his feet. “Look, you can’t tell her about the letters A…”
But I gave him the finger and continued walking.
Chapter 2
—
“ What is the hardest thing about re-acclimating yourself with the outside world?” The group therapist questioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose and looked around expectantly.
Everyone around me was quiet with the usual timidness that came along with these things. I yawned and rolled my eyes, focusing on my oil-stained hands. My bike stalled once on the way here. I loved the thing but it was never perfect. ‘Course, being left untouched in Liam’s storage shed for half a decade hadn’t helped matters any.
“Anyone?” she tried again, shifting her gaze between each one of us. “Come on people. You know the rules. If you don’t talk I don’t give your PO’s a good report…”
When no one spoke up, she sighed and jotted something down on her notepad, twisting her pen around in her fingers. Part of me felt sorry for her. She had it rough. Working with a bunch of stubborn ass ex-cons wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.
Finally, a middle-aged woman broke the silence, raising a shaking hand in the air. I referred to her in my head as Jitters. Giving people a nickname made em’ easier to remember.
The therapist’s eyes lit up. She pointed a manicured fingernail at the mousy woman and beckoned her to speak.
Jitters swallowed nervously and looked around at the rest of the group, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. “The hardest part,” she said quietly, “is trying to revive my relationship with my kids.”
Everyone nodded their heads and someone muttered something in agreement. “Damn right,” another woman called out, coughing into the crook of her arm. “My kids want nothing to do with me.”
The therapist nodded and wrote something else down on her notepad. She seemed to get some sense of excitement out of all of this. But she was probably just glad people were starting to open up.
Not that I had any intention to.
She thanked Jitters for her honesty and—of all people—met eyes with me next. “Anders,” she spoke up, pointing her pen to me. “What about you?”
“Yeah?” I questioned, looking around. All eyes were on me. “What about me?”
“Are there any relationships you’re finding yourself having to repair or function without?”
I swallowed hard and shrugged.
That was an understatement if there ever was one.
T H E N
She didn’t look up when I entered. She didn’t even flinch. She stood with her back to me, pouring a customer a cup of coffee from a steaming pot. Her dark hair was in a bun on top of her head, with loose strands gathered near her temples and secured with shiny barrettes. She favored some kind of Greek goddess; like Artemis or Athena. I joked about it once, years ago, and it resulted in her going on a thirty-minute tangent on Greek mythology; describing things she learned in her freshman philosophy course with such a vivid amount of detail that I almost felt like I was there.
I couldn’t help but feel awestruck every time she opened her mouth. She was past the point of smart. She was fuckin’ brilliant.
I listened intently as she talked about the nature of the world and told stories about ancient gods—like Achilles and Orpheus—who she described as one of the first men to ever, “royally fuck up.” In an act of nobility if there ever was one—he journeyed deep into the underworld to save the woman he loved most—only for one wrong move on his part to catapult her into hell for the rest of eternity.
Love fucking stings and it’s almost never convenient.
“You know I heard you were back in town but I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to actually come here,” she said, swaying past me without looking, her body curving around the Formica counter.
I grabbed her hand and she narrowed her eyes at me, all emotion fading from her expression. It wasn’t so obvious now, but just a
But I gave him the finger and continued walking.
Chapter 2
—
“ What is the hardest thing about re-acclimating yourself with the outside world?” The group therapist questioned, pushing her glasses up on her nose and looked around expectantly.
Everyone around me was quiet with the usual timidness that came along with these things. I yawned and rolled my eyes, focusing on my oil-stained hands. My bike stalled once on the way here. I loved the thing but it was never perfect. ‘Course, being left untouched in Liam’s storage shed for half a decade hadn’t helped matters any.
“Anyone?” she tried again, shifting her gaze between each one of us. “Come on people. You know the rules. If you don’t talk I don’t give your PO’s a good report…”
When no one spoke up, she sighed and jotted something down on her notepad, twisting her pen around in her fingers. Part of me felt sorry for her. She had it rough. Working with a bunch of stubborn ass ex-cons wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.
Finally, a middle-aged woman broke the silence, raising a shaking hand in the air. I referred to her in my head as Jitters. Giving people a nickname made em’ easier to remember.
The therapist’s eyes lit up. She pointed a manicured fingernail at the mousy woman and beckoned her to speak.
Jitters swallowed nervously and looked around at the rest of the group, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. “The hardest part,” she said quietly, “is trying to revive my relationship with my kids.”
Everyone nodded their heads and someone muttered something in agreement. “Damn right,” another woman called out, coughing into the crook of her arm. “My kids want nothing to do with me.”
The therapist nodded and wrote something else down on her notepad. She seemed to get some sense of excitement out of all of this. But she was probably just glad people were starting to open up.
Not that I had any intention to.
She thanked Jitters for her honesty and—of all people—met eyes with me next. “Anders,” she spoke up, pointing her pen to me. “What about you?”
“Yeah?” I questioned, looking around. All eyes were on me. “What about me?”
“Are there any relationships you’re finding yourself having to repair or function without?”
I swallowed hard and shrugged.
That was an understatement if there ever was one.
T H E N
She didn’t look up when I entered. She didn’t even flinch. She stood with her back to me, pouring a customer a cup of coffee from a steaming pot. Her dark hair was in a bun on top of her head, with loose strands gathered near her temples and secured with shiny barrettes. She favored some kind of Greek goddess; like Artemis or Athena. I joked about it once, years ago, and it resulted in her going on a thirty-minute tangent on Greek mythology; describing things she learned in her freshman philosophy course with such a vivid amount of detail that I almost felt like I was there.
I couldn’t help but feel awestruck every time she opened her mouth. She was past the point of smart. She was fuckin’ brilliant.
I listened intently as she talked about the nature of the world and told stories about ancient gods—like Achilles and Orpheus—who she described as one of the first men to ever, “royally fuck up.” In an act of nobility if there ever was one—he journeyed deep into the underworld to save the woman he loved most—only for one wrong move on his part to catapult her into hell for the rest of eternity.
Love fucking stings and it’s almost never convenient.
“You know I heard you were back in town but I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to actually come here,” she said, swaying past me without looking, her body curving around the Formica counter.
I grabbed her hand and she narrowed her eyes at me, all emotion fading from her expression. It wasn’t so obvious now, but just a
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